


Salvation

by sohardtosay



Series: Ashes to Ashes [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Blood and Violence, Chara Has Their Own Body, Chara Protection Squad, Chara Redemption, Chara's Backstory, Echo Flowers, Frisk Needs A Hug, Frisk's Backstory, Frisk-centric, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's Underfell so technically everyone gets redeemed, Narrator Chara, Other, Sans Being An Asshole, Sans Remembers Resets, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-03 21:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6627139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sohardtosay/pseuds/sohardtosay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where it's KILL OR BE KILLED, of course nobody ever told them that Determination is a full-time gig. (Otherwise known as: after 216 deaths, Frisk finally breaks.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lazarus

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Undertale or, subsequently, the Underfell AU.
> 
> Now on my [FF](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11912939/1/Salvation).

They find the ribbon in the Ruins, after falling down a hole concealed by leaves. 

It’s a red ribbon, and very faded, on the ground beyond the patch of leaves that broke their fall. “I remember that,” Flowey says when they pick it up. “I remember the girl who lost it.”

Uncertainly, they say, “Should I put it back?" And that’s about the moment when something whispers in the back of their head: _If you’re cuter, monsters won’t hit you as hard._

Frisk wrenches away, so suddenly they nearly knock Flowey’s pot over. “What?” he cries. “Frisk? Are you okay?”

“I…” The human rubs their head, confused. But whatever it was has come and gone—their head now just rings hollowly. “Yes. I’m alright. Just heard something.”

“It might be more Vegetoids.” Flowey cranes his head. “We should probably head back home. Toriel won’t be happy if I let you get hurt.”

Frisk smiles a little, picking the pot up. “Hey. I can defend myself.”

Flowey shoots a crooked smile back. “Speak for yourself.”

Frisk, still smiling, tucks the pot into the crook of their arm and heads back. Toriel’s out front gardening when they return.

Upon seeing them, she exclaims delightedly. “Oh, how precious! Did you find that out there?”

Frisk bounces on their toes with a smile, anxious. It’s not their ribbon, so it feels strange to wear it, but within a moment, Toriel is clapping her hands.

“You look so _cute_.”

\----

Later, after Toriel’s gone to sleep, they lie awake in the darkness of their room.

They suspect Flowey isn’t sleeping, either, and their suspicions are confirmed after they whisper, “Wasn’t a monster.”

And he replies, “What?”

“I said, wasn’t a monster.” They’re sure to keep their voice down, knowing that Toriel is right on the other side of the wall their bed is pressed against. “Earlier. Didn’t hear a monster. I heard...somebody. Something. It was talking.”

“I...see.” Flowey hesitates. “And what did it say?”

Frisk smiles softly. “They told me to wear the ribbon. That it’d make me look cuter.”

“That’s all?” Flowey sounds amused. “Funny. Maybe it was Sarah.”

“Sarah?”

“The owner. She wore that ribbon, long ago. She…” Flowey chuckles. “She lost it after she tried to use it to fend off a Whimsun. But it was already terrified, and flew away at about the same time she spared and fled.”

Frisk giggles. “Oh.”

“Not all monsters wanna fight.”

“Yeah.”

“Some are still kind,” he says. “Not many. But some.”

Frisk smiles, hugging the blanket to themselves. “Like Toriel. She’s nice.”

“Yes.”

“Are you a monster, Flowey?” They don’t ask to be rude, but they’re unsure. They’ve yet to see another talking flower. “Because you’re kind, too.”

Flowey just chuckles, and the human yawns. “Will you come with me, when I leave?” they say.

“Leave? Leave the Ruins?”

“Mm.” Already, they’re beginning to fall asleep. “The Ruins, and the Underground.”

Flowey doesn’t answer for a moment. Then he just says, “You should sleep, Frisk.”

So they do, not long after, and never quite get an answer.

\----

When they ask for the first time, they’re not expecting Toriel to look at them the way she does: with such a wretched look of disbelief in her face.

“What did you say?”

“I...I said, how do you exit the Ruins?”

Toriel just stares at them for a moment. The Ruins, being secluded, are painfully quiet, and the surrounding silence borders on unnerving.

In a soft, affronted voice, she hisses, “Is _that_ why you went for a walk yesterday? You were trying to _leave_?”

“What?” She continues to glower. “No, Mother. I just—”

“No more leaving the house.” Her voice is razor-sharp. The human immediately falls quiet. “Is that understood?”

“But I—”

“ _No_ more, child. This isn’t up for debate.”

“I’m sorry,” they say, but it sounds more like a question than anything. It seems to agitate her more, as she huffily returns to her book. She ignores them when they tug on her robe sleeve.

“But how do I leave?”

“ _Enough_ ,” she barks, clapping the book shut. Frisk jumps. “Enough. Go to your room this _instant_. And _no_ leaving the house unless I come with you. Understand?”

And of course, Frisk complies, because it would be rude to disobey their mother. But they’re still shaken, lying on their bed later and staring at the ceiling.

“Don’t understand,” they whisper. “She can’t keep us here.”

They’ve moved Flowey to the floor beside the bed. The flower looks up at them. “She’ll certainly try. She always does. She built this house over the escape to the Ruins with hopes that any human who fell down Mt. Ebbot could live with her and be safe.”

They feel a pang in their heart, knowing that what their mother must have gone through is far too great for them to ever understand. The sleep that follows is dreamless and dark. 

The next day, they try to escape while Toriel is in the kitchen, but their sneakers are heavy and clunky on the wooden floors of her home, leaving no room for subtlety. She finds them in a matter of seconds, but instead of punishing them, as they feared, she invites them to help her finish baking her pie.

Flowey chuckles. They glance at him questioningly, following Toriel into the kitchen.

“Peace offering,” the flower mutters sardonically. Frisk frowns. 

Later, they resolve to wear new shoes—easy enough, they’re thinking, having remembered the box of various different shoes in their room. So they sift through it, pulling out everything from cowboy boots to plain dress shoes to a pair of ballet slippers. There’s a pair in their size, from a human Flowey recounts to them while they try the pair on.

It’s looking good, a good fit with some room in the toes, but when they slip one off, something funny about its texture catches their eye.

“What’s wrong?” Flowey says, noticing their inquisitive stare as they finger the heel.

“Feels strange,” the human mutters. Small pieces of rubber flake off. “Really dry. Almost like…”

They angle the shoe in the light, and very clearly see how it’s been charred.

For a moment, they don’t react, just find it bizarre that these shoes could have somehow been burned.

Then they—

_“I’ve always loved magic,” Toriel said, cooking her pie through with a brilliant display of fire magic. “I’ve been using it for years! Plus—” She winked. “It’s easier than paying MTT a bill.”_

_They laughed._

With a small cry, they drop the shoe. 

Flowey is on the floor in his pot, watching them. Desperately, they look to him. But he says nothing. 

Frisk covers their mouth with shaking hands. From the kitchen, Toriel calls: “Frisk! Dinner is ready!”

They don’t ask how to leave for the next three days.

\----

Until they do.

Toriel tries to dodge the question again, tries to offer up facts on snails, but they’re steadfast in their requests. This time, however, she throws the book across the room instead after getting fed up, the ends of the pages glowing with the after effects of her magic. Frisk, who has Flowey’s pot in their hands, hugs it closer to their body.

Very softly, Toriel says, “Do not ask me again.” 

“Mother—”

“ _Don’t_ ask me again.” This time she snarls, her hands clenching and flushing red from fire, like the sunlight just beginning to peek through somebody’s eyelids. Her face is twisted, in a horrible combination of rage and despair. “Understand?” 

The child doesn’t answer. They can only stare at her hands. They can only feel their blood, racing through their chilled body.

Their mother softens, looking down. “Stop looking at me like that.” Her hands cool and drop into her lap.

“Why can’t I leave?” they whispers. 

“Why do you _want_ to?” Her face scrunches up more, in a way that announces impending tears. “Did I do something _wrong_?”

They feel their chest tighten and tell her immediately of course not, it was nothing she did or didn’t do. She doesn’t appear to believe it.

“I want to stay,” they say, trying to smile. “I promise I do.”

She inhales sharply. “Then do. Stay. Stay forever.”

They wince. They can hear her vulnerability, and it’s killing them.

“I can’t, Mother.” At this, _she_ flinches. They’re starting to realize that, perhaps, it’s cruel of them to refer to her as their mother. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she says. “If I let you go, you will _die_. The monsters on the other side will do everything in their power to kill you and take your soul.” She bites her lip, trembling. “You could be _happy_.”

“I know about the barrier,” Frisk says. “And I want to break it. I want to free you all.” But Toriel still looks wretched.

“You don’t _understand_ ,” she screams out, and Frisk inches backwards, fearing an offensive outburst. She begins to hyperventilate. “ _Every time I let them go, they always die._ ”

“I have to go home.”

“You’re home. You _are_ home.” She looks them in the eyes, hers wavering with bright tears. “Don’t leave,” she croaks. “Stay with me.”

Frisk shakes their head. Toriel sobs.

“I’m sorry,” they whisper, or at least, they’re about to, because the next thing they see is the fireball Toriel throws at them and their soul being obliterated.

\----

Dying is not easy.

They know they’re going to have to die eventually, and were never imagining it to be easy, but nothing quite compares to their soul being blasted to pieces.

They hear that voice, the one that whispered to them, call out a litany of _Stay determined, you cannot give up just yet, stay determined..._ They remember Flowey telling them about Determination, and wonder if it’s him. But they’re not sure how it could be. They imagine he would have told them, too, the first time they heard the voice, which is a little bit like their own.

 _Stay determined_ , the voice whispers. Then it says, _This is far from over_ , before going totally silent—right as Frisk opens their eyes and sees the ceiling of their bedroom in the Ruins.

They think they’re going crazy, or that, at the very least, it was all just a dream. Their clothes are intact. When they touch their skin, it’s smooth and unburned. Then Flowey, no longer in their arms and instead in his pot on the dresser across the room, says, “Welcome back.”

Frisk looks at him, blinking slow, confused blinks. They have a massive headache, the kind that will likely stick around for a while. 

“Did I...die?” they whisper.

Flowey, rather than answering, nods, before bursting into tears.

\----

Dying is not easy, but living is a lot harder.

Toriel doesn’t remember. Of this, Frisk can be certain. She seems happy to see them when they get up, which isn’t the attitude Frisk expects a mother who just murdered her adoptive child to have. They sit at the table and eat their breakfast and listen to her stories. When prompted, they even laugh.

They still love her. They know right away, taking one look at her, that they’re not angry with her for what she did. They know that she’s had other children, who are probably dead, and that she wants to protect them and is _terrified_ of losing them to whatever lies beyond the Ruins. They know. 

What really shakes them, they think, is the dying and coming back to life without a scratch. 

Flowey remembers, which is about the only concrete thing in this madness. “Both the first child, Chara, and I had Determination at one point,” he tells Frisk, with haunted eyes. “But they were the more Determined one, so only they were able to die and reload.”

“Is that how? My Determination?”

He nods. The child wonders if they should ask more, but that seems to be all that Flowey wants to share. So they change tact: “It’s good to know this. It tells me exactly what I’m dealing with.”

“What are we going to do, though?” Flowey sounds scared. They’re sitting in the dark of the bedroom, without much light. Neither can see the other’s face. “We might have to kill her if we want to leave.”

“No,” Frisk says immediately. “Don’t kill her.”

“But, Frisk, she won’t—”

“ _No_ killing,” Frisk repeats. “We’ll find a way. Even if it takes longer. Even if it takes forever.”

Flowey doesn’t respond right away, but eventually, he just laughs. “What?” says Frisk.

“There’s that Determination. The King used to tell Chara that: _stay determined_. And they did, of course.” His voice grows fond. 

Frisk wants to laugh, as sort of an ironic thing. “That’s what I heard when I died.”

They mean it to be funny, or cute, but Flowey’s eyes immediately widen. And not happily. “Really?”

Frisk falls silent.

“I...alright.” He pushes out a breath. “Okay.”

“But what does that mean?” they say. But he’s silent, eyes distant—in another place, another time. And no one talks again after that.

Later, after they’re sure Flowey is asleep, they untie the ribbon and slip it into their pocket.

“Didn’t work,” they murmur. The voice is quiet.

\----

They ask Toriel again the next day. And the next. Every day after she goes to bed (or after they die—whichever comes first), lying awake, they devise a plan, of ways to convince her to let them go. They offer to learn how to fight, even if they would never actually raise a hand to a monster. Then they tell her that Flowey’s coming with and will protect them. Then they tell her that they’d rather die trying to save the monsters than not.

Each time, they’re destroyed by Toriel’s fireballs, which she releases in a fit of agonized rage. Each time, they draw up a new plan. Each time, they step foot into the hall and head for the living room, they’re feeling revitalized, and ready. Each time, they’re killed again. And each time, that voice—which is all but silent these days—whispers to them, to stay determined, to not give up. 

Toriel kills them roughly two dozen times. They know because, after a while, it’s all they can do but to keep track of it, in rough ticks they start scratching into Flowey’s flowerpot. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two, and so on. 

Their head is high, their resolve unwavering. They don’t plead, or cry, or beg.

Not yet.

\----

“I had a son, you know,” Toriel tells them one day, while she’s reading to them. It’s a peaceful reload, one where they haven’t died in a while, and they’re seated on the arm of her recliner.

Frisk perks up questioningly. Toriel nods. 

“I’ve had many children, but he was different.” She sets her book down, hands folded in her lap. “A true, blood son. His name was Asriel.”

“What was he like?”

“Oh,” she laughs softly, “he was a good little boy. Kind-hearted, smart, honest—he died long ago.”

Slowly, Frisk takes her hand. She doesn’t pull away.

“He reminds me a lot of you—or, I suppose, I should say, you remind me a lot of him. He’s not around anymore.”

“What happened?” Frisk hates to ask it, but they feel like they must. They feel as though they’ve stumbled on something huge and important.

“Ah,” Toriel says, as she often does when she’s startled, “it’s complicated. He was...you see, the first human that fell into the Underground, Chara, was adopted into our family. Asriel was their best friend.”

“He was killed by humans,” Flowey interrupts from the table, causing Toriel to nearly jump. Frisk squeezes her hand. The flower’s voice is darkly emotional. “Chara came down with a terrible illness, died, and Asriel carried their soul across the barrier to a surface village. Where he was fatally wounded by humans, who thought he’d killed Chara and attacked him without hesitation. _That’s_ how Asriel died.”

“That’s enough,” Toriel says softly.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. They deserve to know the truth—of why most of the monsters hate humans.”

“Most of the monsters here want a human soul so that we can finally cross the barrier,” Toriel forces. Her lip quivers when she speaks, eyes flashing. “ _Not_ because they hate humans.”

“Speak for yourself,” Flowey grumbles, and doesn’t speak again. After a while, Toriel returns to the story, but her hands shake as she flips the pages. Her face is haunted, even after she’s finished and kisses Frisk on the temple. 

“What did you do that for?” Frisk asks later, in the dark of their bedroom. “You didn’t have to upset her like that.”

“She’s always been too soft on the other monsters. The humans were wrong to kill her son, but the monsters were wrong, too, to go human hunting.”

“There is no right and wrong,” Frisk says, “just how you look at the world.”

Flowey winces. “They killed _children_ , Frisk. _Innocent_ children.”

“So did Toriel. So did the humans on the surface, who killed Asriel.” Frisk smiles, laid out on the bed with their arms folded behind their head. “I think, tomorrow, we should try to escape again. What do you think?”

“Fine.”

“And Flowey?”

He huffs. “Yes?”

“New rule. Promise me: no killing. Don’t lay a hand on Toriel, or anybody. Okay?”

Flowey sighs again. “Yes. Fine. No killing, or hurting, or touching anybody. You have my word.”

“Not a single soul. We’re pacifists, now and always.” They crane their head toward him. “Alright?”

“Alright.”

\----

They don’t escape the next day. Or the next.

They stop asking, after dying a few more times and realizing that it’s pointless trying to convince her. She’s too hurt, they’ve come to realize. Too raw to be reasonable. So they try different angles, different times: they try slipping out when Toriel is asleep, but she always catches them. During a different reload, they try taking their noisy shoes off, to see if that makes a difference (it doesn’t). Then they try slipping out when she’s running errands, or gardening, or out in the Ruins. Nothing works.

So Frisk begs her, pleads with her a couple of times, to please please _please_ let them go, and she’s crying too, every time, as she burns their body to a crisp. They reload a dozen more times. Two dozen times. Forty, fifty.

During some reloads, depending on what they do, she acts differently. Like once, when they tell her they’re going to take a nap then try to slip down the stairs, she catches them in the basement and drags them by the ankles to the kitchen. She only does this a few times, when they’re especially deceitful or sneaky, but being burned alive and feeling their partially-charred body being prepared into a pie is horrific enough that they lie awake after each ensuing reload, shaking violently all over.

But.

They don’t give up.

The worst part about Toriel, they think, is that she really doesn’t want to kill them. She cries every time she raises a hand, every time her fire magic starts to glow. A few times after a reload, they find themselves getting frustrated, even angry with her, for keeping them here. But they know what she’s been through; Flowey reminds them of thise couple of times, serving as a stable point in the chaos. And Frisk nods, and whispers their forgiveness into the space above their head, clutching their resolution to their chest like it’s something they can physically hold. 

_Stay determined_ , the voice chants, floating them through it all. And sometimes, when they sleep, they’ll dream, too, and the voice will say, _You are the future of humans and monsters_ , and it’ll sound so human that Frisk will wake up in a cold sweat, thoroughly tangled in the sheets. 

They don’t give up. They _can’t_ give up. The voice tells them as much, and they don’t. Don’t even consider it.

As painful as it is, being ripped apart by flames, Frisk knows, definitively, that the monsters past that gate won’t be half as kind as Toriel is about killing them. They accept this, bow their head, and move forward.

\----

The voice will talk even when they don’t die.

They don’t know it at first, because they don’t spend much time doing much other than trying to escape. But sometimes, when they look at something in the home, or pick something up, it will creep up. Sometimes, as Frisk is reading something, the voice will offer comments; during one reload, for example, they go into Toriel’s bedroom—initially for an exit, because what better place to hide an exit than in a bedroom they’re not even supposed to be in, but curiosity gets the better of them as they start looking around. They bump into Toriel’s desk chair by accident, and the voice pipes up, _Toriel’s small chair...it’s name is Chairiel._

Stunned, Frisk laughs, and Flowey looks up in confusion.

The child smiles to themselves. “Just thought of something funny.”

Flowey furrows his brow—if flowers even have such a thing—before shaking his head. Frisk starts laughing again when, in the corner of the room, they run their hand along the pot of a cactus and the voice says, _Ah, the cactus. Truly the most tsundere of plants._

“Frisk?” Flowey sounds amused. “What’s up?”

They bite their lip, grinning. “Sorry.”

“Humans are weird,” the flower says. But he’s smiling.

Nonetheless, they don’t find an escape in Toriel’s bedroom, and the one down the hallway is locked. The voice offers no explanation or help. But they go to bed later, alive and healthy, so—they’ll take what they can get.

\----

And Frisk wants to know more.

They figure out what makes the voice talk, in between dying and reloading. If they touch things, the voice will narrate, so they spend most of one morning touching as many things as they can get their hands on (without Flowey, so he doesn’t think they’ve gone crazy). They run their hand along bookshelves, go through Toriel’s bedroom again, and eventually start in on the kitchen, running their hands along pots and pans, the refrigerator, the stove. The voice tells them about Toriel’s pies, and about the brand-name chocolate in the fridge—but nothing more. 

“What are you?” Frisk wonders aloud.

No answer. They touch the stove again.

 _The stovetop is very clean_ , the voice repeats, like a tour guide. _Toriel must use fire magic instead._

Frisk tries again: “What are you? Are you a ghost?” But there’s no answer. It makes them huff. 

Toriel is coming back inside from running errands when they pass the front hall, and gives them a small wave as they head toward her bedroom. Their soul is pulsing with Determination, so brightly that it gives off a red glow, which she frowns at but otherwise doesn’t comment. 

In the hall, Frisk touches one of the side tables holding a flowerpot. The voice tells them about the flower seeds in the drawer, as well as the broken crayons. They touch one of the strange, cattail-looking plants, and the voice proclaims that it’s a “water sausage”.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Frisk wonders, mostly murmuring so Toriel won’t hear. Unsurprisingly, their head is silent. 

At the end of the hall, there’s a mirror mounted on the wall. They touch the cool glass with one hand.

_It’s you!_

They smile. “It’s me.” They make a funny face at themselves, before touching the mirror again.

 _It’s you!_ It almost seems to say this louder. 

This makes Frisk’s smile broaden. “You’re funny,” they say. “You know that? I like you.”

 _It’s you!_

“It is! It is me!” Frisk replies, in the same, bubbly tone that’s in their head. Giggling, they poke the glass again—

 _Living room._

Frisk jerks back, nearly stumbling over their own feet. 

Nothing stirs again, either in their head or in the mirror. Their entire body is suddenly cold. In the glass, their face has gone pale. 

When they touch the mirror one last time, the voice brightly exclaims that _it’s Frisk_ , nothing more. 

They head back to their room, shaken, but don’t find Flowey where they’d left him on the dresser. Their head is already bad, and not seeing him in his usual spot fills them with an irrational panic, thinking that, somehow, they’ve _lost_ him. 

And yes, Flowey’s there, in his pot on the side table when they peer out from the hallway. Toriel is reading a book with her glasses on. Frisk nearly doesn’t stop themselves fast enough when they realize that, whatever this conversation is, it’s not a happy one. 

“Why do you bother?” Flowey is saying. Toriel shrugs, still scanning the page she’s on. 

“There’s a little good in everyone.”

“Right. And in him, there’s a _lot_ of bad.”

“Aren’t those the ones that need our help the most? The ones who have so much bad?”

The flower just sighs, looking annoyed. Toriel looks at him. “I have to ask.”

“No, you don’t,” he mutters.

“I think I do.” She smiles sadly. “Do they know?”

“What? About me?” When she nods, the flower flutters his leaves dismissively. “No. Not a chance.”

“Funny.” She stands, brushing off her robe. “You ought to tell them one of these days.”

Flowey’s stem stiffens, and he seems to shake himself off again. “One day,” he murmurs, although Toriel’s already vanished, having headed down the stairs.

Frisk, after a while, steps into the living room. There’s still a lot that they don’t know. But they don’t ask.

\----

That night, Frisk thinks, _Who are you?_

Flowey and Toriel are asleep, and their bedroom has fallen into its usual, quiet self. They hadn’t tried to escape, so the day was soft and sweet. Even after what happened at the mirror.

They don’t speak. Not just in fear of waking Flowey, but as means of trying something different: _I know you’re not a what. You’re a who. What’s your name?_

The static-y silence hisses all around them. Through the wall, Toriel is snoring softly. 

_You told me about the living room...how did you know I’d be looking for Flowey? How did you know he was_ there _?_ But their eyes have grown heavy, and they know that their head is empty tonight. 

After a while of lying there and staring at the ceiling, Frisk rolls onto their side, pulling the blanket to their chin.

 _Tomorrow, I’m going to escape. The last time, I promise. I have a plan. Okay?_ They think this with a small smile on their face, whether anybody’s listening or not, and slip into sleep a few minutes later. 

In their dreams that night, the voice says, _You are the future of humans and monsters_ , like always. Frisk vaguely sees themselves thanking somebody. It’s a formless, colorless shape. A shadow, with two slits that could be eyes. They never know where they are in these dreams; it feels like they’re lying down, and whatever is speaking stands over them. 

Just as it’s about to end, the shadow—which usually stays put and gradually fades away—leans forward this time, so close that Frisk feels the cold fan out over their face. 

In their ear, the voice says, _So get us out of here._

When Frisk jumps awake, the room is bathed in the red glow of their soul, shining at their neck like a star.

\----

It takes them sixty-three tries to escape the Ruins.

Toriel is screaming, crying with grief and despair, and it’s not like many other saves before, because in the middle of an attack, she _stops_ , dead stops, and folds to the ground. Frisk is running, half-blinded by blood from a gushing head wound that’s left after a fireball struck above their left eye. They’d finally just gone for it, just like they said, just woke up and grabbed Flowey and said goodbye to her and sprinted down the stairs as fast as possible. They’re smaller, but not much faster, with Toriel on their heels all the while blasting attacks at their back. And when she fell, they’d nearly stopped themselves. Nearly dropped down to comfort her, and hug her, and tell her that everything is okay, but the prospect of escaping after so many failed attempts courses through their body harder than any amount of love or sympathy. May she one day forgive them for turning and running that much faster.

Her voice carries like an electric pulse down the long tunnel to the gate, as she cries for them, as she begs them not to do this, not to run, for one of the humans to finally _just stay_. They don’t stop. 

“It’s okay, Mom,” they call over their shoulder. Shards of broken teeth spray with each word, from where they were flung against the wall. “I’ll watch my back. I’m gonna go out there and save you all, I promise.”

“ _COME BACK_ ,” Toriel howls, wretchedly, and Flowey raises his vines to cover his ears. “ _DON’T LEAVE ME LIKE ALL OF THE OTHERS!_ ”

Shivering, Frisk clutches Flowey’s tight to their bloody body. They’re in bad shape, _real_ bad shape, much of their body twisted up and burnt and bleeding—and Toriel barely took any swings at them. Things will be so much worse on the other side. 

“I’m sorry,” they whisper, much too quiet for her to hear.

“I hate this part,” Flowey cries. Toriel’s voice echoes behind them, fading—she could follow them, but doesn’t, and Frisk is in too much pain, is too _grateful_ for it, to try to guess why. “I wish she would stop.”

Frisk pulls their ragged lips back into a haphazard smile. “She doesn’t know how to stop. She’s too determined.”

“Even wounded, you’re still funny.”

“Tell me a story.” Frisk stumbles a bit and realizes, blinking past the blood flowing into their eyes, that their shoe is untied. This makes them wrench out a broken, raspy laugh.

“What? What is it?” Flowey says, panicked.

Frisk smiles shakily. “Nothing. Just...tell me a story. Alright? Trying not to pass out.”

“Oh, uh…” The flower looks around, as if he’ll find something in the soil of his pot. “Okay. Wh-when I was younger, my father and I used to love gardening. And I used to pl-plant stupid things, like coins, or candy, or small trinkets I found around the house. And I would always get s...so upset, when they wouldn’t grow.”

Frisk coughs wetly, their lips coated in blood. Their face is as pale as paper.

“Keep going,” they rasp. “This...is a good story. I like it.”

Flowey sucks in a sharp breath, and Frisk can tell it’s all he can do not to cry. “S-s one morning dad w-woke me up and...he said, ‘Asriel, come outside! Come look! Your garden, it’s blooming…’”

Slowly, Frisk smiles.

“My dad, he’d planted all sorts of stuff over the seeds. Like books, and compasses, and fake flowers from inside the house.” Flowey lets out a soft, sad sound. “That was the best day of my life.”

“Asriel,” Frisk whispers.

Flowey goes rigid.

“It’s funny, is all,” they say—carefully, as if they can’t remember the words. They’ve slowed to nearly a walk, stumbling forward. They use the wall to prop themselves up. “Toriel...had a son named Asriel.”

“I…” Flowey begins, but Frisk shushes them. Their finger is a burnt, charred stump; the bone shows when they raise it to their lips.

“Another time. Finish later. Another...time...” They repeat this a few more times, before collapsing. Their soul’s weak pulse is a mere flicker now, but Flowey still manages to pull them through the gate to the save point before the light snaps out for good.

There’s snow on the ground, a good layer. It’s stained red with blood.


	2. Whiplash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE warning for graphic depictions of violence in this chapter. The monsters (namely the Skelebros) are NOT kind to Frisk.

Sixty-fourth reload. 

They reach a bridge, maybe a quarter mile into the forest, before anything finds them. It follows them for a short while, before Flowey stiffens in his pot and whips his head around. 

“We’re being followed,” he whispers. But it isn’t until Frisk reaches a bridge, barred by a gate-like structure (that’s spaced far too wide to stop much of anything), that something stirs behind them.

They whirl, so quickly that Flowey nearly goes flying. A skeleton is what’s waiting behind them, dressed in a heavy black jacket. His voice, after a strained pause, is drawling and low.

Pleasantly, he says: “Hiya.”

Their chest tightens. There’s another stiff pause, in which no one talks, before the monster cocks his head.

“Not great with greetings, are you?”

The skeleton is lolled back lazily on his heels, and has a wide, menacing smile that features a gold tooth, hands in the pockets of his black shorts. He’s, to put it mildly, not at all what Frisk was imagining for what lay on the other side of the door. They were waiting for something terrifying. Something bloodthirsty. The sort of thing that Toriel was afraid would tear them apart. 

“Heh. Relax, kid,” he says. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Frisk doesn’t move.

“It’s been awhile since a human passed through here.” Sans tilts his head again. His lips—if he even has any—really don’t open or close. He somehow talks through that smile. “You look a lot like the first one we ever had.”

Frisk glances down at Flowey, who nods.

“Buuuut...anywho.” The skeleton sticks out a bony hand. “I’m Sans. Sans the skeleton.” But they don’t reach out to reciprocate, and Sans huffs (somehow, considering he probably doesn’t have lungs) in annoyance. “Buddy. When somebody’s acting nice and hospitable to you, it’s all you can do to return the favor. Especially around here...hospitality’s a rare thing to come by.”

“Sorry.”

“Ah. So you do talk.”

“What lies beyond this forest?” Frisk says.

Sans looks surprised. “Well,” he says, “up ahead there’s a town called Snowdin. Assuming you can get past my brother.”

“Papyrus,” Flowey says knowingly.

Sans, impossibly, smiles wider. “Ah, yes. I remember you too, bud.”

“Frisk,” Flowey says urgently, “keep walking. We’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

“Oh, hey, little buddy, are you saying you _don’t_ have to worry about me? Because you and I both know that’s not true.”

“What’s he talking about?” Frisk asks uncertainly.

“Where are you going anyhow, kid?”

“...Up.”

“Up,” Sans repeats, appearing to not understand. Then he laughs, showing he does. “Oh dear. Aren’t they all.”

Frisk is confused. Toriel never talked like this—never with this sort of flexibility and cool ease about the past. As if she could recall the sixty-three timelines before the one in which Frisk finally got away.

Uncertainty, Frisk ventures, “You remember?”

“Remember what?”

Flowey goes, “Frisk, _don’t_ —”

“The resets,” the child persists. Their soul, very briefly, pulses crimson. “Every time they’d reload.”

“Oh. Yeah. Last one that could do that was the first one, though, so it’s been awhile.” Sans says nonchalantly, briefly closing his eyes. “I guess that brings me to my next point.”

When he pops open his eye sockets, the left glows with a menacing, _burning_ red iris. The right, meanwhile, is completely empty.

Frisk opens their mouth, right as Flowey screams, and something hot splits Frisk’s soul apart and their body crushes Flowey’s pot as they drop to the snow.

\----

Sixty-five. Their eyes ache when they open them.

Sans is waiting at the bridge—for _them_ , they now know, when they meet the skeleton’s eyes and he laughs outright, overjoyed.

“So,” Frisk says. “What was your next point?”

“Just testing to see if you’d remember.” Sans looks delighted. “I think I’m gonna like you, kid. It’s boring when they don’t remember.”

“Will you help me escape, then?”

“Don’t count on it,” Flowey mutters sullenly.

Sans chuckles. “Listen to your flower, kiddo. I’m not interested in playing hero. Just sitting back and watching.”

Frisk takes in a breath, disappointed that their facsimile ally fell through, and blows it out. “So. Snowdin, you said?”

“That I did.” Sans rolls his shoulders. “I wouldn’t count on getting there safe, though.”

The human widens their stance minutely, back stiff. Sans laughs. “Breathe, kid. I’m not gonna kill you again. But something tells me you’re not the violent type.”

Frisk doesn’t respond.

“Thought so,” says Sans, satisfied. “Which is unfortunate, for you, really, because I can name all of the non-violent types down here on one hand. It’s lucky you ran into one of them firsthand.”

“ _You?_ ” Frisk can’t help themselves. Is that some kind of joke? They wouldn’t put it beside this mysterious skeleton, with his lazy demeanor and menacing smile.

“Hey, I told you: I was _testing_ you. And believe me, I went easy on you.”

“And if I died for real?”

Sans shrugs, blasé. Frisk swallows. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m kinda supposed to be on the watch for humans. It’s my job.” Sans chuckles to himself. “Not that I need to. They usually come to me first.”

“You sure you don’t wanna come?” Frisk asks.

Sans eyes them. “To Snowdin?”

“No.” They gesture vaguely forward, to the east. “Out. With me.”

“What, and watch you die over and over? No, thank you. I can do that from here.”

Frisk tilts their head.

“I’ve kinda been stallin’ ya, kid. But I guess it was inevitable, anyways.” He shrugs. “So. Ya know.”

Their hairline, which has just begun to prickle with panic, breaks out with a full-blown sweat when they hear, distantly:

“ _SANS!_ ”

“Oh no,” Flowey whispers, in a knowing voice, and Frisk has never been so afraid.

\----

For everything Sans is, Frisk soon learns: Papyrus, the source of the voice and Sans’ younger brother, is everything Sans is _not_.

Where Sans is light-hearted, casual, and on the lazy side, Papyrus is hot-headed, serious, and fiercely energetic. Where Sans speaks softly, Papyrus shouts and emotes vividly. The only thing they’re matched in, besides being of the same blood (or _however_ skeletons are related), is their capacity for cruelty, Frisk comes to realize.

Because Papyrus is also strong. _Much_ stronger than Toriel, or perhaps just as strong, but frenzied and more bloodthirsty and more _willing_ , so he hits Frisk like a freight train. They barely ready a dodge before an enormous bone punches right through them. Right through the stomach, piercing them with the ease of a hot knife through butter. It’s agonizingly, excruciatingly painful and their soul doesn’t rip apart fast enough to keep them from screaming through the blood filling their mouth. Flowey wrenches away. 

Their eyes open not long after, slowly and reluctantly. Sixty-six. 

Sans does nothing when Papyrus kills them. He stands off to the side, propped up against the wide bars laid across the bridge, hands in his pockets. Once, when they’re about to die, they look up, right into his eyes.

His smile gets wider. It’s the last thing they see before they die.

\----

After spending another night in the Ruins, taking turns to listen for Toriel’s footsteps, they find Sans the next day.

“Morning,” he says. “You clean up well for someone that just got turned into a shish kebab by my brother.”

“We should hide,” Flowey says, looking up at them. Frisk nods.

“What?” Sans taunts. “Assuming I don’t give you away?”

Flowey turns to glower at him, while Frisk steels their back. They feel their soul pulse with heat. “You wouldn’t do that,” they say, “would you?”

“Do I seem like the kind of guy who’d throw you under the bus? Come on.” Sans pushes back from the bars. He gestures over his shoulder. “I’ll even show ya where to hide.”

Frisk follows behind. They still have the stick, and it clicks over the boards of the bridge.

“Thank you, Sans,” they say. 

“Don’t thank me yet, kid. And don’t mistake me. Because we aren’t friends.”

“I know.”

“Oh, shit,” Sans says, and comes to a stop so abrupt that Frisk runs fully into his back. They nearly drop Flowey—just manage to catch him at the last second.

“ _Sans_ ,” says that awful voice, which creeps across Frisk’s back like a pair of fingers playing along their ribs. “ _Where have you_ been _?_ Have you been slipping on your watch?”

Papyrus pauses, cocking his head. He’s as tall as Frisk remembers, and wears menacing black and red armor which looks custom, full of sharp angles and jagged points. A long, thick scarf is piled around his neck. Like his pupils, it’s as red as blood.

“What have you got there, brother?”

“Sorry, kid,” Sans whispers to them, sounding anything but. “Guess we were too late.”

It doesn’t take long. Flowey tries to climb out of the pot and pull Frisk to safety, but his roots aren’t strong enough after so many resets of inactivity, and one sharp, blinding pain in their leg and Frisk whispers their goodbye.

Sixty-seven.

\----

The worst part about resetting are the few moments after they open their eyes, the voice from whatever dreams they’ve had still resonating in their head, and can’t remember where they are or what’s happened. Down here, sometimes they feel like it’s the only peace they get.

Flowey’s climbed from his pot, something Frisk has only seen him do once before. He trails dirt after him.

“I figure,” he says, “if I’m going to be of any use to you, I should stretch my roots.”

Frisk giggles. Flowey smiles. “What?”

“Nothing.” They take his pot and scratch another tally into the ceramic, using the toy knife they found in the Ruins. Sixty-seven tallies doesn’t take up a ton of space. It, in fact, looks rather small, but nothing has felt bigger in their entire life.

Frisk sits back, listening. The Ruins are as quiet as they remember, as is their head. These days, the voice only pipes up when they die.

“Okay,” They sigh. “So. This isn’t gonna be easy.”

Flowey just laughs. Frisk, in spite of it all, feels warmth fan out across their chest.

“We got this.”

They take shelter in the Ruins for the night, which is becoming a habit these days, sleeping beside the gate. One is supposed to be keeping watch, but they both doze off. Toriel never comes, anyways. 

The next day, Papyrus rips Frisk’s legs clean off of their body, one at time, which is grueling, because the first one isn’t enough for them to die just quite yet and they’re left flailing in the snow as Papyrus looms over their squirming body.

The pain keeps them suspended in a place of consciousness, precarious on an edge between life and death—they are not, however, dead, and can hear Sans, sitting at the sentry station, and laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

They make it all the way to eighty deaths, never quite reaching a hiding spot in time.

\----

On their eighty-first reload, somehow, they make it. Papyrus’ footsteps are heavy up ahead, but they’re ready. They sprint right past Sans, who’s in the middle of saying something, and get behind the boulder. Their hands are violently shaking, they realize, when they squat down.

Flowey is shivering, too, a bad habit he’s gotten into these last couple of resets especially. They’re never quite sure if it’s from the cold or from watching them die so many times, but Frisk brushes the snowflakes off of his leaves, just in case. He looks up at them with an exhilarated smile, which they’re sure they match. 

Papyrus’ footfall comes to a stop, right behind the boulder. “Brother,” he says, in that raspy voice of his. 

Flowey looks at them, eyes wide. He mouths something, so jittered and quick that Frisk can’t make it out.

A bated moment passes. Then Papyrus says, emphatically, “Greetings!”

Frisk releases the longest, most anxious breath they’ve ever held. “’Sup,” Sans says.

“ _Why_ aren’t you at your post, Sans? Were you sleeping again?”

“I mean, unless I started sleepwalking, I don’t think so.”

“Sans,” Papyrus huffs, “do _not_ get short with me.”

“Whoa, hey, Pap, if that’s a dig at my height—”

“Oh dear, I didn’t even _realize_.” Papyrus snorts. “Not that you could get much _shorter_ , lest you want to disappear from my sight.”

“Don’t you go turning into another me, bro.”

“Please! Like we need another...and at the risk of losing the great Papyrus, too!” He says this with a flourish.

“What a shame,” Sans deadpans. 

Frisk tilts their head a bit. It occurs to them that they’ve died so many times at Papyrus’ hand that they’ve never heard him speak to this length.

“So,” Papyrus says.

“So,” Sans repeats.

“Sans.” Papyrus sounds impatient. “Have you found any humans?”

“Oh. I dunno. Why do you ask?”

“ _SANS!_ ”

“Oh my God, bro, _relax_. I’m messing with you.”

“I am perfectly aware that you are messing with me, _bro_. You don’t seem capable of _not_ messing with me.”

“It’s part of my charm and you know it.”

“Pretty much the only thing you got going for you, I can say that.”

“What, and you’re much better with that foofy costume?”

“What?” Papyrus sounds genuinely hurt. “You said you loved my battle body just last week!”

“I do. It’s just foofy as all hell, that’s all.”

“At least I’m _trying_. Unlike _some_ of us.”

“Does trying involve getting dressed up and practicing evil laughs while making breakfast? Because if so, I’ll fucking pass.”

“You. Are so. _Useless_ ,” Papyrus grits out.

“ _Please_ ,” Sans spits right back. “We both know you’re just riding on _my_ coattails.”

Frisk flinches—they’re terrified that a fight will break out, when the words being exchanged should hold heat to them, but it sounds far too casual to be an actual argument. It’s banter, they realize. Probably how the two of them talk to each other all the time.

“Well, brother, this _foofy costume_ is my ticket into getting into the Royal Guard. It boosts morale, which is great for hunting humans—Undyne said so! And she’s been...off her game, as of late. It’s concerning.”

“Her _human-hunting_ game?”

“Precisely.”

“Bro. No offense, but do you see any _humans_ around for her to _hunt_? That might be why it’s ‘off’.”

“That’s _beside_ the _point_ , Sans! _God_. Do I have to do _all_ of the human hunting around here? Does anybody _care_ about leaving the Underground anymore? Sometimes, Sans, _sometimes_ I swear, I feel like I’m pulling all of the weight.”

“Whoa, bro. It really sounds like you’re…”

“Sans.” It’s a warning.

Sans’ voice gains speed and vigor, excited. “Working yourself—”

“ _Sans—_ ”

“Down to the _bone_.”

“ _Shut up!_ ”

“Oh, come on! You’re smiling.”

Papyrus sounds to be, too. “I am, and I hate it!”

Sans snorts, and Frisk shoots Flowey an incredulous look. _This_ is the same skeleton who’s obliterated them so many times? Who’s mutilated them beyond recognition? This huge _dork?_

After Papyrus’ metallic footsteps stomp away and they emerge, Sans is leaning against the sentry station. “Okay,” he says. “So I _have_ to ask you something.”

They tilt their head.

“Out of curiosity—are you keeping track of how many times my brother annihilates you?”

With a smile, Frisk holds up the side of Flowey’s pot, exposing the row of scratches. Sans lets out an incredulous laugh.

“Holy shit. You got guts, kid, I’ll give you that.” He rolls his shoulders back. “Or maybe you’re just too stupid to know when to give up.”

Frisk doesn’t know why, but that makes them giggle. “Maybe.”

Sans just sighs. “Humans are fucking weird,” he mutters to himself, turning away. 

Flowey looks up at them with a smile. “We did it, Frisk. We survived.”

“Yeah,” Frisk says, laughing. They pause, then laugh again, with more volume and energy. “Yeah, we did.”

“Congratulations,” Sans says dryly, from where he’s returned to sitting. Flowey cuts him an angry, sidelong look.

“Be _quiet_ ,” he snaps, but immediately, Frisk is shaking their head.

“No,” they say. “Be nice. Always be nice.”

The flower sighs. “Sorry.”

Frisk walks over to Sans, who has an elbow on the station to keep his head propped (he already looks to be dozing off). “What direction is Snowdin?”

He eyes them. “Only one way to go, kid. Just follow the traps and you’re there.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“So, I have another question,” he says, pointing at them. They tilt their head. “What’s your _plan_? To get out of here?”

Frisk doesn’t reply.

The skeleton clicks his non-existent tongue. “I see. Just kinda wingin’ it, is that right?”

“Don’t know.” 

He shrugs. “It’s fine, kid. Do I seem like the kinda guy that plans things, ever?”

Frisk goes silent again. They stare at Sans for almost an uncomfortably long time.

“Will I see you again?”

Sans bobs an invisible set of brows. “Miss me already?” They just shrug, looking at him still, and he says with a sweep of the hand, “Yeah, yeah, you’ll see me. I’m around Snowdin more than I am around here.”

“Okay.”

“We should get moving,” Flowey whispers to them. They nod, flooded with sudden gratitude, because they can never quite thank him enough for his quiet, almost unsolicited support.

Sans has his eye sockets slightly narrowed, looking them over. Frisk realizes that, they hope they run into him again, sometime in the future. It’s a strange thought to have, but they hope they get to know him more than the brief minute they have to talk to him during each reset. Maybe he’s not their friend, and maybe he doesn’t save them from Papyrus, but he doesn’t seem interested in hurting them, either. And that’s good enough for them. 

Still looking at him, they finally say, “Thank you, Sans.”

Sans just smirks, but he’s frowning, too. Gripping Flowey tight, they head into the forest.

\----

Up ahead, they find Doggo (the voice informs them of this), a dog monster who’s near-blind and carries a pair of swords that seem eternally in the en garde position. It’s an easy battle, one that floods Frisk’s soul with relief as Doggo aimlessly swings his sword over their soul, demanding for them to reveal themselves.

The voice offers the option to pet him. Except when Frisk reaches out, Doggo interrupts their turn with a loud bark of “ _MOVING!_ ”

They escape with a finger missing, and a deep, bloody gash to the leg. “You gotta be careful,” Flowey hisses as they limp through the snow. “Don’t trust anything around here. Okay?”

“Sorry,” the human coughs, spitting out blood onto the back of their hand. Their soul flares red the entire, stumbling path to the next save point.

 _Knowing the mouse might one day find a way to heat up the spaghetti...it fills you with Determination_ , the voice says in their ear as they touch the golden star. Frisk, despite it all, smiles to themselves.

 _I haven’t given up on you_ , they think to it. Touching the save point drags the two bloody lips of the cut on their leg back together. There’s no scar left behind. 

After that, it’s relatively smooth. They avoid monsters they encounter, who are as bizarre and unfriendly as those in the Ruins, sparing and dodging, sparing and dodging, all the while navigating the traps. After Doggo, there are few more mistakes, and Frisk starts to brim with hope again.

After passing over a bridge, they encounter more dogs, two this time, and wearing black robes. They barely catch a glimpse of enormous battleaxes before their soul’s pulled into battle.

They dodge, rolling in the snow in the process, which compels one of the dogs to wonder, “Are you a lost puppy?”

Frisk lets out a very un-doglike giggle. Which is a mistake.

“ _Human_ ,” one of them hisses, like a curse. The dogs raise their arms in sync, and the end is, blessedly, quick; Frisk’s stomach is ripped apart. Their intestines spill from the seam and they fall face-first onto the steaming, bloody snow.

Eighty-one.

\----

Frisk doesn’t rest after coming to beside the microwave.

The dogs, Dogamy and Dogaressa, are nearly blind like Doggo, and Frisk is thinking it’ll be easy to convince them that they’re a dog this time. But they can smell Flowey, too. Eighty-two comes quickly, ending with their head dropping onto the snow behind them.

When they open their eyes again, the last thing they remember is Flowey, screaming right as darkness came.

 _Stay determined_ , the voice insists. 

They get to the bridge. The dogs loom on the horizon. This time, Frisk resolves to run.

Axes fly again, cleaving in a way that nearly divides their soul in half, so they spare and flee as quickly as their legs can carry them. The dogs shout to each other that the smell is gone, and give up chase after just a few hundred feet.

“Thank God,” Flowey whispers, jostling in Frisk’s arms, as they run and run and don’t stop until their legs give out, catching on something in the snow.

Not a trap—a tree branch, which finally gives their battered heart a rest. Nonetheless, they drop Flowey, and he skids a considerably distance on the snow.

Flowey rights himself before falling, looking to them in concern. “You ok—?”

Frisk interrupts by laughing.

“Frisk?” Flowey ventures uncertainly. But the child claps their hands excitedly. There are stars in their eyes.

“We did it!” they cry.

The flower dissolves with relief, before smirking to himself. “Interesting attitude of somebody who just narrowly avoided being murdered.”

They beam, revealing the gap between their teeth. “We made it past Papyrus.”

“You got that right.” He grins back. “I’m proud of you.”

“And the dogs, too. We’re on a roll.”

“Please. _You’re_ on a roll. You’re a rockstar, Frisk.”

Smiling, they high five him, which is a little strange considering the leaves and all. Their soul is so bright that it lights up the snow ahead, like a lantern.

\----

Up ahead in a clearing, they encounter Papyrus and Sans again, arguing about something, which catches them off guard. The two skeletons separate for a crucial moment, spotting Frisk, and Papyrus’ mouth spreads with a grin.

“Oops,” Sans says, smirking. Frisk feels their soul being pulled into battle faster than they can blink.

“You got this,” Flowey whispers and Frisk nods, setting their jaw. They widen their stance.

Papyrus shows all of his teeth, jagged little daggers, before raising an arm. 

Eighty-three. 

Frisk wakes up, rubbing their wrists, before notching Flowey’s pot and rising to their feet. 

They run past the dogs, and accidentally step on a twig when they approach the clearing. Papyrus’ head snaps up as if on a string, and they’re dead before they’ve even stepped out past the trees—pieces of their body blasted out around his bone attack. 

“We _got_ this,” they insist, unwavering. 

Eighty-four. Then up to ninety. 

On the ninety-sixth try, Dogamy and Dogaressa coordinate a particularly good attack that takes off an arm. Frisk watches it fly before even realizing that it's theirs. They start to howl in pain right before dropping, face-first, into the snow. 

On the one hundred and second, they're running when a battleaxe gets wedged in the back of their head, and it takes several minutes for them to die. All they can remember is the hot blood oozing down their neck, and the sizzle of the snow as it melted.

_Stay determined. Stay determined. Stay determined._

One hundred and fifth. They’re dodging and it looks like they might actually make it, until Papyrus gives up his magic altogether and _grabs_ them, his bones crushing their own as they squirm and wriggle in his hands. 

Papyrus punches them so hard that their nose audibly snaps. Teeth spray out of their mouth, and Frisk is still alive enough to start screaming and crying, chanting for mercy out of their bloody lips. They almost can’t help it. Anything to stop the pain.

"Oh, _Pap_ ," Sans says, laughing. "Put them out of their goddamn misery already. One hit and they're already crying uncle."

"I oughta invest in hand-to-hand more," Papyrus says enthusiastically, as if he couldn't possibly be more delighted. He probably is. Flowey cowers and turns away as Papyrus punches and punches and punches them, until their broken bones are showing their skin and their eyes are lost to the swelling of their face.

Then he slams them on the ground, which finally breaks their back. 

Frisk wakes up to Flowey screaming bloody murder.

\----

And they nearly make it past one hundred and six.

Nearly. But they tripped after sparing and fleeing, which wasn’t so bad, except they broke Flowey’s flower pot and lost vital seconds wincing with pain at the icy ceramic shards in their knees and hands. Papyrus made a comment about it all being “too easy” to Sans, before staking them to the ground through the chest.

Flowey cries after they reload about being useless, about only slowing them down. Frisk hugs him close to their chest, to their soul, to the spot where the femur stabbed right through them, and whispers sweet nothings. It makes Flowey cry harder.

They don’t scratch in this death. Too cruel. Instead, they lay beside Flowey’s pot and curl up to ward off the cold from the other side, which falls over them like an icy slip. The entire world seems to be silent. 

After a while, they whisper, “Tell me a story.” 

“No,” the flower whispers.

“Okay. Not today.”

“Stop it, Frisk.”

But they shake their head. They almost sound apologetic. “Can’t. Don’t know how.”

“This is impossible,” Flowey murmurs.

“Asriel—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” the flower says wretchedly, but he starts crying, _sobbing_ really. Frisk touches the side of his flowerpot with their fingertips. “Don’t call me that. Don’t _ever_ call me that.”

“Okay.”

He shudders, sniveling. Frisk keeps their hand on his pot, not trying hug him. Not if he doesn’t ask. 

“Let’s sleep, okay?” they ask with a smile. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Flowey laughs bitterly. “We won’t get past him.”

“Then we try again.”

“And then what? There are other monsters besides Papyrus. Monsters who are _worsedeserve_ to be saved. Can’t you see that?”

“We should sleep,” the child repeats.

“I can’t take much more of this,” Flowey says, sounding to be pleading. “I can’t keep watching you die over and over again. I _can’t_.”

“We can do it,” Frisk insists, but their voice wavers. “Okay?”

“ _No_ ,” Flowey forces. “Just leave me behind. Don’t make me do this anymore.” They reach for him, and he starts to wave his leaves. “No, don’t. I just need—”

His voice cuts off when he sees their eyes—wet, like his. Wetter even. The human sniffles.

"Sorry," they whimper.

“Oh, Frisk,” he whispers. 

“I’m sorry,” Frisk repeats, curling into themselves. “I’m sorry. I’ve been awful to you. I haven’t even considered how you feel.”

“No—Frisk, it’s not your _fault_. It’s _theirs_. They’re the ones who are killing you when all you want to do is help.” Flowey falls silent, seemingly awaiting their response. But they’re quiet, with their tears dripping to the ground. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I always was a crybaby.”

“ ** _It’s okay_** ,” Frisk whispers harshly, from a place that doesn’t even seem to come from within them, and jerks back so quickly that they hit their head on the table that the microwave is sat on.

Flowey doesn’t even ask if they’re okay. He only stares at them, wide-eyed. The air around them seems to be holding its breath.

Slowly, Frisk breathes out. They’re panting slightly, one hand rubbing the back of their head.

“I-I…”

“Okay,” Flowey says softly. “Okay. Maybe we _should_ sleep.”

“Mm.” Frisk nods. “Yeah. Yes.”

“Okay,” Flowey repeats, nearly whispering. He wraps his leaves around himself, but Frisk knows that, like them, he won’t sleep.

They lie awake for the longest time, staring at the false sky that rises above the Underground. 

_Help me_ , they whisper to the voice. They squeeze their eyes shut. _Please. I know you’re there, and I need your help. Tell me how to get past Papyrus. Tell me how to free the monsters and save everyone. Tell me how to convince everyone that I mean no harm. Please._ And nothing still, and they try, one last time. _Please?_

But nobody came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chara is noticeably absent here (except for the end), which is deliberate--Frisk is too occupied with trying to progress and not die here to be too bothered with "the voice".
> 
> Of course, Chara hates to be ignored.

**Author's Note:**

> Chara backseat driving (and eventually front seat driving) Frisk is my absolute favorite. Narrator/Flavor Text Chara is also my favorite.
> 
> I'm sorry for what's to come.


End file.
